


Erik Lehnsherr: Nazi hunter

by yellowumbrellagirl



Category: Magneto - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:36:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowumbrellagirl/pseuds/yellowumbrellagirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was inspired by my college chum (GodsofWar on FanFiction.net who originally posted my fic), who mentioned a message post, somewhere from the depths of the interweb, about how awesome an Erik Lensherr: Nazi Hunter movie would be. Whelp, I thought it was a nifty idea, so I ran with it.</p><p>Also, the quote at the beginning of the Chapter is from the song "Gloomy Sunday", composed in 1933 by Hungarian pianist and composure Rezső Seress. Also called the "The Suicide Song", it was banned from the BBC radio airwaves during WWII. All factoids are from Wikipedia, so take them for what they are worth. All I know is that there is an Artie Shaw version, a version by Billie Holiday, and a great 1936 version by Paul Whiteman with Johnny Hauser that I have on my iPod that came from the on-line radio archives.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Erik Lehnsherr: Nazi hunter

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by my college chum (GodsofWar on FanFiction.net who originally posted my fic), who mentioned a message post, somewhere from the depths of the interweb, about how awesome an Erik Lensherr: Nazi Hunter movie would be. Whelp, I thought it was a nifty idea, so I ran with it.
> 
> Also, the quote at the beginning of the Chapter is from the song "Gloomy Sunday", composed in 1933 by Hungarian pianist and composure Rezső Seress. Also called the "The Suicide Song", it was banned from the BBC radio airwaves during WWII. All factoids are from Wikipedia, so take them for what they are worth. All I know is that there is an Artie Shaw version, a version by Billie Holiday, and a great 1936 version by Paul Whiteman with Johnny Hauser that I have on my iPod that came from the on-line radio archives.

 

Gloomy is Sunday/My hours are slumberless/Dearest the shadows I live with are numberless.

 

Vienna, October 1952

The first one happened simply because it was raining and the young man had decided to take the trolley rather than walk. He was heading across town with the vague idea that at some point he should get something to eat. The trolley was crowded and he had given up his seat to a middle aged house frau with a few bags of shopping. The starts and stops were making him unexpectedly tired. Two stops later the house frau had departed and her space was filled with a dark haired young woman roughly his own age, 25. 

He noticed her because of how her eyes scanned everyone as a potential threat. She was not conventionally pretty, but with her strong, even features, she was what he thought of as a handsome women. Except that she seemed gaunt, as if she had lived too many hard years with not much food. This was not unsurprising, given the post-war rationing. But the subtle ache of want seemed to be imprinted much deeper, almost to her core.

The young man realized to his embarrassment that he was staring, and when her deep gaze met his, he looked away quickly. But even through his faint cloud of shame at his rudeness, there was a familiarity to her look that echoed in his memory, and an ugly coldness rose up in his belly. He glanced out the windows at the rain smeared city, and saw that she was still looking at him in a way that had his spine tingling with an unsettling feeling of recognition. No one knew him here in Vienna, that was the entire point of having come here. 

Wanting to extract himself from the increasingly uneasy social situation, he began shuffling towards the closest door. The trolley stopped again, further than were he wanted to be. So he stood his ground as people around him politely moved past him and a new group of slightly damp commuters boarded. 

The passengers had just settled themselves and the trolley starting on it’s ponderous way when he heard a sound that made his blood run cold. A barely suppressed scream erupted behind him, the high-pitched sound of a rabbit in a trap. A strange hush filled the trolley as all eyes swiveled to locate the source of the sound. Turning, he saw the young women, her completion waxen and cadaverous bolting forward in a blind panic. She made a mad sprint for the trolley doors, viciously slapping at the hands that tried to steady her, ignoring the calls of alarm and questions of the other passengers. 

She barreled past him to the door, her hard elbows digging in his ribs to move him. In the grip of a soul tearing panic she began pounding on the trolley door, using her fists to force the hinges open, she leapt from the still moving trolley to the street. It was only when she was free of the vehicle that the scream that she had been suppressing ripped from her and sent spikes of iced terror into him. She started to run, and it was only two heart beats later that he followed her off the trolley and through the streets. 

It was the one coherent word that he caught that had caused him to go after her. It was almost lost in the hysterical scream, but he heard it and it had pulled him after her. One word, “Monster.” It had been said in Hebrew.  
She was fast, with a speed born of terror. Heedless of the traffic she had run blindly, and he had to push himself to keep her in sight. A car, horn blaring had almost run him down, and in the instant of saving his own life he had lost sight of her. A strange panic started to grip him as he managed to finish crossing the street. Even with the rain there were people out, and her drab black overcoat would not stand out in a crowd. Crossing a small platz, a woman’s scream drew his instant attention. A small crowd was forming and he ran directly towards it. 

Shouldering his way past the onlookers, he saw the young woman had fallen, weeping incoherently, to the wet pavement. A startled looking young Allied Commission member had her by the arm and was trying to raise her from the pavement. With his rifle slung awkwardly on his shoulder, helmet tipping over his eyes and a hysterical woman by the arm, this young serviceman was not having an easy time. His Uniform declared him to be American, and that he spoke barely passable German came as no surprise. He took a moment to thank their luck that they had not wandered into a soviet controlled zone. The young service man was of an age to them both, but his nervous glances about him in search of a superior officer betrayed that he had not been in Vienna long. 

“Miss please, Fräulein bitte. . . You have to get up. Fräulein stehen bitte oben.”

The young man pushed forward again breaking through to the open area around the sobbing woman and bewildered Allied policeman. He made it to her just as he heard the young serviceman say with an edge of irritation,

“If you don’t get up, I will have to take you in.” Of course this was said in English, the young women’s proficiency in that language never having been established.

“Nien!” he said it more desperately that he expected. “Bitte!” 

The soldier looked up and tensed as he reached them. He dropped down to his knees by the woman, putting his open, and empty, hands over her, as if to ward off the American. 

“No, please!” the young man continued in English, to the surprise of the soldier. “Meine Schwester. . . My sister. This is my sister. . .”

The soldier let go of the women’s arm and stepped back, hands securing his rifle, but not removing it from his shoulder. “This woman is your sister? Ihre Familie?”

“ Ja! Ja, Meine jüngere Schwester. . . My baby sister…” 

“Oh.” The solder eyed them both. The young woman had started to pull herself together, eyeing both men warily and looked as if she would get ready to make another run for it.

“Don’t run, I want to help,” he whispered to her in Hebrew. She froze, uncertain, a flash of terror crossing her face before she clamped it down and her face became a neutral mask. She allowed him to help her to her feet.

“Is she ok? What is going on? Was ist das?” The soldier barked out the question as he took a step out of their reach.

Mind working quickly, the young man made his face grave and his voice solemn, 

“Our mother. . . Unsere Mutter ist gestorben. . . Dead. Meine Schwester ist sehr umgekippt. . . My sister is. . .” the young man looked at the soldier with a faint trace of bewilderment, as if he was running out of English.

The soldier eyed them both for a moment as if thinking over the German words, scanning them for deceit. But he gave up after a moment, his knowledge of the language loosing to his want to believe the sad story. 

“Ok, take her home then. Uh. . . Haus, jetzt.”

“Ja. . . Home now. . . Danke. . . Thank you,” he turned to the young woman and offered her his arm. “Kommen Schwester, wir geht jetzt.” 

The young woman took his arm and let him lead her quickly away. The young man threw a quick look over his shoulder to see the young American watching them walk away. They crossed the street and blended in with the crowd around them. 

They were both silent as they walked another two blocks. Finally the young woman said softly, “Thank you.” Again it was Hebrew, but before he could reply she continued in German, “So, brother, what is your name?”

“Erik Lensherr.”

“Deborah Heller.”

“Nice to meet.”

“And you. Well, what now Mr. Lensherr?”


End file.
